Dasher in Alaska messed up.

 

Igor thought delivering sushi at 2 a.m. to frat houses was the weirdest thing a Dasher could do—until Tuesday. The order pinged in: “Russian Consulate—urgent.” Easy money, he figured. The bag smelled glorious, all garlic and cumin and the kind of spices that stick to your hoodie for a week. He didn’t notice the receipt said “Ukrainian Sampler Platter” until two men in dark coats stopped him at the door, politely but firmly suggesting he “wait inside for clarification.” He figured “clarification” was diplomatic code for “we’re calling someone important who’s not awake yet.”

Inside, the mood was tense—like a Cold War documentary but with more indoor plants. Igor braced for an interrogation about sovereignty, sanctions, or possibly cilantro. Then the attaché lifted the foil lid, inhaled, and whispered, “Beria taco platter?”—half question, half benediction. Plates were produced, vodka appeared, and within minutes a potential geopolitical incident had devolved into an enthusiastic round of “just one more taco.” Igor left with a handshake, a tip in rubles, and the uneasy realization that international diplomacy might work best when nobody talks, but everybody eats.